"More fool you," said George, swallowing his drink in one gulp and picking up his hat.
"I have a suggestion, though," said Edgar, quietly. "It could be officially announced that the Arcadia has managed to run six hundred and thirty-five miles today; and we could then make every effort to catch up that extra five miles during tomorrow's sailing. We haven't yet taken her as fast as she can possibly go. We still have six thousand horsepower in reserve, over and above our registered horsepower. That's my estimate, anyway. So you could still win your bet."
Percy Fearson looked up, his face scandalised. George Welterman paused as he was about to place his straw skimmer on his head. Then he nodded and left the stateroom without a word.
FIFTY-THREE
Marcia had been lifted aboard, wrapped in a blanket, and then carried in Mark's arms down to the ship's hospital, where Dr. Fields and his nurses had already prepared a bed for her in a private room. Catriona followed a little way behind in her mauve Doucet dress, escorted by Dick Charles. Behind her came a shouting collection of American journalists and photographers, and a herd of curious passengers. Monty Willowby appeared from the direction of the forward staterooms with a large brown-paper parcel under his arm (Sir Gerald and Lady Burnutt's lavatory-seat, which he had feverishly unscrewed during Marcia's rescue) and he succeeded in diverting the press and the passengers so that Marcia could be borne safely to her bed. Marcia's stewardess, Ada, was already there with a clean nightgown of turquoise silk, and she shooed Mark into the hospital anteroom while Marcia was bathed and changed.
|The anteroom was plain and painted in cream. On the wall was a single Georges Barbier print, mostly orange, of two nude ladies pouting at two pouting doves. Catriona took a cigarette out of her small silver case, and Mark came across and lit it.
For two or three minutes, Catriona smoked in silence. Then she said, "Is this going to change anything?"
Mark said, "Why should it?"
"Oh, don't be so naive," she told him. "She tried to kill herself, and all because of you."
Mark shrugged. "We'd argued. But I didn't have any idea that she felt so rejected."
"You must have told her about us."
"I didn't, as a matter of fact."
"You should have done, just to be fair."
"That's what she told me," complained Mark. He took out a cigarette himself and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. "I had to be fair, I said. Well-what's fair? I ask you? I don't know what's fair. Is that I've fallen in love with you, and out of love with her? Is that I've fallen in love with you, and yet I still want to buy the Arcadia? Tell me what's fair, and I'll do it. I don't know what's fair."
"Oh, for God's sake,' said Catriona. "You don't have to be so petulant about it."
"Petulant?" he exclaimed. But then he banged his fist on his own forehead, and nodded, and grinned, and said, "All right. I'm being petulant. It's inherited. In Boston, they call us the Petulant Beeneys."
Catriona said, "I'm just concerned that you're going to feel responsible for her now, in case she tries to kill herself again."
"Of course I feel responsible."
"So responsible that she's going to come between us?"
"Of course not."
Catriona blew out smoke. "You say, of course not. But if you feel responsible, then you're going to have to act accordingly, aren't you? In a responsible way. And the only way to fulfil your responsibility, and to prevent Miss Conroy from leaping off this ship again, is to tell her that you've loved her all the time, and that you still love her. 'Sorry about Catriona, she was just a mistake'."
Mark said, "Why do girls always have to make life so damned complicated?"
"We don't make it complicated," Catriona told him. "It's simply that we can face up to things, which men can't. You don't have anything more complicated to do than make up your mind whether you want to stay with Marcia, or come with me."
"You make yourself sound so hardboiled," said Mark. "I think I'm hardboiled. In business, I'm hardboiled. But you—whoo!"
Catriona came and sat down beside him. She touched the back of his wrist, her fingertip circling around and around. "There's nothing hardboiled about facing up to what you are and what you want out of your life," she said, gently. "It's honesty, that's all. I inherited it from my father and I had to use it against my father when I first went to London. I knew what I wanted, even though I was only seventeen. I wanted to be free. I wanted to discover what life was really like, outside Formby, and I did. Perhaps it was scandalous. Well, it was scandalous. None of my friends ever managed to do it, and most of them are still living at home with their parents even now. But I found a man who loved me, and I learned about love, and I don't think that's too hardboiled, do you?"
Mark looked at her seriously, and then down at her circling finger. His cigarette was still unlit. "I don't think I've ever had to go after love like that," he said.
"You make it sound like a bear in the woods, which you can either hunt or leave alone."
"Well, isn't it?"
"Sometimes. And sometimes it springs up on you and attacks you when you're least suspecting it."
"Like when?"
"Like the moment I first saw you."
"I don't believe you fell in love with me then," smiled Mark. He kissed her forehead, and then her cheek, and then her lips. "Nobody in love like that."
"Prove it."
It was then that Dr. Fields appeared, with his stethoscope hanging from his neck, and set his black leather bag down on the art deco liable. He thoughtfully sucked a shred of breakfast bacon out from his false teeth, and then he said, "Well ... I've made an examination."
"Is she all right?" asked Mark.
"She's as well as one might reasonably expect her to be. She has severe bruising, from jumping into the water from such a height. She is also suffering from shock, from exposure to cold seawater, and from the complete exhaustion. But, well, none of those conditions is difficult to treat. If she has plenty of rest, and plenty of affectionate company, she should recover by the time we reach New York."
Mark said, "Did she tell you why she'd jumped?"
Dr. Fields looked at him narrowly, and then nodded. "She did explain it to me, yes."
"And?"
"And nothing," said Dr. Fields. "What do you expect me to tell you? That you shouldn't jilt young ladies when you're as rich and as good looking as you are, in case they kill themselves? It's a risk that some people have to take. Not a risk that I've ever been fortunate enough to have to run. But a risk, nonetheless, which can have tragic consequences for everybody concerned."
"So what do you suggest?" asked Mark.
Dr. Fields coughed. "If you like, you could try being more considerate towards her for a while, provided you don't raise her expectations beyond what you're prepared to give her. Don't tell her that you love her if you don't. Don't promise to marry her, or anything foolish like that. It might help her to come out of her depression now, but it would kill her later on, when she found out that you didn't mean it. Be her friend, that's all I can say. She deserves at least that much."
Mark said, "Can I see her?"
"For a short while, yes. But I want her to sleep."
They went into the room where Marcia was lying. The shade had been drawn down over the porthole so that the sunlight was dimmed. There was a vase of pink silk peonies on the table; and, on the wall, a soothing pink and grey landscape. Marcia's head was wrapped in snowy white bandages, and the hand that lay on the plum-coloured blanket was bruised and scratched. She looked up at Mark and Catriona with eyes that were already drooping from the effects of sedatives.